The Property of a Gentleman. Helen Dickson

      ‘A shock? But why should it be a shock? What precisely do you mean, Mr Soames? My father has left me well taken care of, hasn’t he?’

      ‘Yes—that is so, but it may not be what you are expecting.’ He focused his eyes on Gerald, who was watching him intently, every muscle in his face tense. ‘The entire estate—that is, the land, the house and other properties—both here and in London, are to go to you, sir.’

      Eve waited, going colder by the second, trying not to look at Gerald as he tried to conceal his triumph, knowing there was little left to come her way but expecting her father to have made a substantial sum over to her.

      ‘You, Eve,’ Mr Soames went on, shifting his gaze once more to her, ‘are to receive an annuity in the sum of two thousand pounds a year.’

      When he fell silent she waited in expectant anticipation, expecting him to continue, to tell her there was more, until she realised there was nothing more. Her heart rose up to choke her and she stared at him in absolute confusion and astonishment.

      ‘But—but that’s not possible. There must be some mistake. There has to be. My father’s assets—he—he was an extremely wealthy man. It has to be more than this.’

      ‘There is no mistake,’ he said quietly, his voice penetrating the mist of Eve’s bemused senses. ‘His main assets are private matters and have nothing to do with the estate—namely, his shares in several coal mines and interests in various industrial concerns and so forth, several of them in which he and Mr Fitzalan were partners and which he made over to him before he died.’

      All the colour drained out of Eve’s face and her hand rose and clasped the collar of her black mourning dress. She was stunned, unable to believe what he had told her. A silence fell upon the room which seemed to last an age, the small assembly around her becoming shadowy, faceless figures, all staring at her, until Gerald, acknowledging his good fortune in inheriting the estate—and yet beginning to feel a trifle perplexed that not all Sir John’s property had passed on to him as he had expected it would—began talking animatedly to Mr Soames about what it would mean to him, with little regard for the pain and disappointment that was tearing Eve apart.

      The still, quiet figure of Lady Pemberton sat rigidly on her chair towards the back of the room, neither shock nor surprise disturbing the marble severity of her face, but her eyes and ears missed nothing. Only the hand cupping the gold knob of her cane gave any indication of the way she felt, for it gripped the knob hard, so hard that her knuckle bones nearly punctured the thin white skin covering them.

      Only Marcus seemed to be aware of the pain Eve was suffering. She was young and unable to deal with the dilemma in which she found herself. As he looked at her his gaze was secretive and seemed to probe beneath the surface, but he could see by the terror in her eyes, how her face had become drained of blood and the way her fingers clutched her throat, that this unexpected blow from her father had hit her hard.

      From what Sir John had told him he knew she was a strong-minded girl who would know how to take care of herself well enough, but it was only a girl who was behind the artificial ageing of bereavement, and it would not be easy for her to get over something like this.

      Something in the region of his heart softened and he wanted to go to her and offer some words of comfort, wishing he could erase the sad, stricken look from her face, but he knew by the cold hostility she had not attempted to conceal when they had been introduced after the funeral, and in her eyes when she looked at him, that by his own fault she would not welcome his sympathy.

      ‘Is that it? Am I to get nothing else?’ she asked, her voice surprisingly calm, but so quiet Mr Soames had difficulty hearing her. ‘With all his wealth, did my father make no other financial provision for me? Am I to be reduced to such dire straits that I must starve?’

      Mr Soames was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable before Eve’s hard gaze and his eyes wavered as he looked down at the papers in front of him, coughing nervously. ‘No—it is not quite as bad as that.’

      ‘Then please tell me. And where am I to live?’

      ‘Perhaps when I have explained everything to you it will be much clearer. Your father did not leave you as destitute as it would seem—for, as you know, he always had your best interests at heart. But there are certain conditions to be adhered to—certain clauses that may seem strange to you.’

      ‘Conditions? What kind of conditions?’

      ‘That you and Mr Marcus Fitzalan marry within six months of his death.’

      Eve was so stunned she was unable to speak.

      ‘Should this be agreeable to you both,’ Mr Soames went on hurriedly, wanting to get this unpleasant part of reading the will over and done with as quickly as possible, ‘Atwood Mine—of which your father was the sole owner—will become yours jointly.’

      The words came as a shattering blow to Gerald, whose face became as white as his frothing lace cravat, bringing an angry exclamation to his lips and jolting him to his feet, causing all heads to turn in his direction. ‘No, sir. It will not do. This I cannot accept. Atwood Mine is Sir John’s main asset and is surely entailed with the rest of his estate.’

      ‘That is not the case. Sir John purchased the lease, not the land. As everyone is aware Atwood Mine—which is the largest and most profitable mine in the area—was sunk by Mr Fitzalan’s grandfather and the lease sold by Mrs Fitzalan to Sir John privately on the death of her husband. The lease has another fifteen years to run—with the rent arranged annually on a scale related to the amount of coal mined. You are correct in saying it was Sir John’s greatest asset, and it was his wish that the lease be returned to the Fitzalan family—providing Mr Marcus Fitzalan marries his daughter Eve.’

      Eve looked at Gerald properly for the first time that day. Both his parents were dead, and his home, where his younger brother Matthew—a quiet, gentle young man whom she knew well and had a strong liking for—still lived, was three miles from Burntwood Hall, but for most of the time he resided in London and she had not seen him for several months.

      He had been a frequent visitor to Burntwood Hall in the past, and both she and her father had shared a very low opinion of him. On his last visit she noticed how changed he was towards her, as if he noticed for the first time that she was no longer a child but a young woman. She hadn’t liked the way he looked at her—too long and too hard, and not in the least like a relation who should know better than to lust after his cousin’s daughter.

      Seeing him now, she liked him even less. At one time she had thought him to be as handsome as a Greek god, with hair the colour of spun gold and looks that made every woman he came into contact with swoon and fall at his feet. He was more corpulent than when she had last seen him, but he was a handsome figure still, though soft living and overindulgence had blurred him somewhat and there was a seediness creeping through.

      At twenty-eight he had been spoilt by an adoring mother and fawned over and adored by countless women. He thought he had only to wink an eye to have any one of them tumble into his bed; if all the stories about him were to be believed, then there was an army of women he had enjoyed and then grown tired of, casting them aside as one would discard a worn-out toy. In the past he had been involved in one scandal after another, causing her father acute embarrassment.

      As her gaze focused on his face she saw his expression was closed as he watched, his brown eyes, glittering with menace, darting from her to Marcus Fitzalan. They were filled with such hatred that her heart skipped a beat. His slack lips were set in a slight smile that was not pleasant; in fact, there was something about him that reminded her of something sinister and evil.

      Her eyes shifted from Gerald and travelled across the room to meet the cold, pale-blue implacable stare of Marcus Fitzalan, where he still stood with what she could only describe as lounging insolence. He seemed so cool, so self-assured, while she felt as if she were falling apart.

       Chapter Two

       M arcus Fitzalan’s expression was unreadable, but Eve